Under My Skin
by electricsymphony
Summary: 'I'd sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near.' Post S7 Rogan, NOT Revival compliant and no spoilers. Official Multi-Chapter Prequel to 'The Huntzberger Revival'. Rating subject to change. As always, stronger language than necessary.


**Notes:** This wasn't entirely planned from the beginning. I certainly never expected to do this when I originally posted 'The Huntzberger Revival', but you all loved it so much and the outpouring of support and accolades was intense and you got me wondering how Rory and Logan got to be the established couple we see them as in that cute, fluffy one-shot. And I was compelled to bring you on a ride with me so we could find out. Well, here you go. Hope someone actually wanted this. You really don't have to view this as being in the same universe, if you don't want. I do, but there's nothing about this story that makes it contingent on THR.

If you'd like to hear my thoughts on the revival, I'd love to share them and hear yours, but please PM me about it. I ask that you don't leave Revival spoilers in the reviews, as some people may have still not seen it. Thanks! :)

Also, this is going to be a long one, folks. Full of angst, love, anguish, fluff and smut ahead. The course of true love never did run smooth, after all. ;)

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls, its characters, plot lines and premise belong to Amy Sherman-Palladino, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. The song that this fic features and gets its name from, 'I've Got You Under My Skin' belongs to Cole Porter, Frank Sinatra and their affiliates. I do not own anything detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. All rights reserved to respective parties.

* * *

 **January 11th, 2012**

For a second, you actually forgot. For just one fleeting moment, the soft sounds of a shaggy-haired British crooner and his piano let the stench of sweat, anger and regret slip from your body. The scotch you've been downing for the past twenty minutes might've been another factor – then again, you've been drinking all day, just to get through it. Most people aren't pissed off their asses when they _get_ to the bar; you've never been most people.

 _'Don't ask –_ _ **tell.**_ _What do you want to happen here? Make it happen.'_

You close your eyes just a little tighter, willing the image of his cold, smug face from your mind.

' _Your actions shape the way people look at you. Do you_ _ **want**_ _people to see a fucking degenerate, because that's how you behave.'_

There's an annoying itch in your eye, but blinking repeatedly does nothing to soothe it. You're not crying; people only cry for the ones they love.

 _'You can't have her, Logan. Look, I get it – I was young once. Rebellion is a simple pleasure, but you have duties to live up to – more important duties. She'll drag you down, she'll_ _ **compete**_ _with you. You want a wife that supports you, not competes with you.'_

He was wrong; you wanted both. _She was both_.

She was the only person who ever thought you could be more than that — more than _him_.

See, the thing is, when you have something drilled into your brain that much, you begin to believe there's no way out.

 _'You're going to be a goddamn newsman, Logan. I won't accept anything less — I won't have you squandering your potential on sinking yacths and fucking brainless bimbos.'_

A rueful, sardonic smile curves on your lips; as it turns out, he didn't accept fucking women — wom _an,_ rather — of _substance_ either. Oh, wait, that's not exactly true—

 _'If it'll sate your desire for rebellion, Logan, fuck her five ways from Sunday. I don't give a damn. But the moment — the very moment, mark my words — that she becomes a hindrance, you'll cut her off or I'll cut her off for you.'_

With all the grace you'd expect from a drunken mourner, the raised glass of scotch in a mock toast splashed all over the floor and dripped onto your pristine, polished loafers.

Rest in hell, asshole.

* * *

She was a blonde, blonde as can be, with dark eyes and a darker smile. It was a promise of fun, of debauchery, of nothing to fuss about in the morning. The kind of girl that didn't expect the talk, let alone a commitment. You used to love this shit. Now — it's repetitive, unfulfilling. Ridiculously _boring_.

 _She_ was boring. If you were sober, you'd be able to admit to yourself that she wasn't objectively unappealing as a person — her laugh was quite pleasant, she was reasonably intelligent with interesting opinions, and she didn't seem to be as self-involved as most of your usual flings.

Maybe in another life — a life where you'd met on a different night, at a different bar, under different circumstances and with a higher degree of sobriety — you could've been friends.

But you didn't. And you aren't.

And your drunken ass doesn't see anything past the blonde hair before it feels wrong, so painfully wrong.

So when she throws her drink in your face in response to your snide, borderline sexist comment, you just let the sticky red substance seep through, without a care. A laugh bubbles in your chest, but it's a bitter, hollow thing. Pitiful, really.

"That was cold, mate," Steven claps your shoulder as he takes the vacated bar stool. "She do something to deserve that?"

"Nope."

After several minutes of companionable silence, Steven chokes on his drink when the British Crooner pivots to a distorted, autrocious rendition of an Eric Clapton cover.

"This bloke is fucking awful."

A snort of agreement is the only indication you give that you even heard him.

* * *

You stare in dismay at the empty glass in front of you, a forlorn sigh on your lips — another, maybe. No, _definitely_. Not a good idea to sober minds, certainly, but yours is far from it. "Refill," you mutter, and don't wait for an acknoledgement before — none too gracefully — scrambling off the barstool.

From across the bar, you see it transpire in slow motion.

"Moneypenny!"

Steven, momentarily forgetting himself, reacts out of instinct. "Gilmore!"

The twat actually twirls her around in his arms — like _you_ used to, the damned fucker, although you're hardly surprised. Those two always got along freakishly well, sharing numerous dislikes including but not limited to horseradish, 90s grunge music, reality television and Bobbi Preston. You just stare like a fucking zoo monkey, slack jawed and silent.

Of all the gin joints, in all the world...

Nope, not going there. You're not _that_ drunk.

She clearly hasn't noticed you yet. Steven shoots you an inconspicuous but meaningful look, and you gesture to the middle of the dancefloor. You can't see her; she can't see you. You'd like to keep it that way, for now.

But as one of your best friends laughs, dances and drinks, hearty and genuine, with the love of your life — or a hallucination of the love of your life, you're not entirely sure — there's only so much a man can take before his jealous brain takes over.

Tapping her on the shoulder, she turns, drink in hand, her brilliant, radiant smile flickering only slightly before it pulls itself up by the bootstraps.

"Logan," she says succintly — not a breathy whisper, not a pained expression, nothing to even indicate she was _at all_ taken aback by seeing you.

"Fancy seeing you here, after all this time." Your smirk is all 2006 Logan; charming, playful and just a bit sardonic. Fake. Fragile. Forced. "You on a pub crawl, Ace, or just got lost?"

Her obvious and visceral reaction to the familiar endearment slipping so easily from your lips seemed to cause her to falter slightly. You only grin wider.

"I was at the funeral."

The grin slips faster than quicksand.

"You... what?!"

Steven flushed a rather unpleasant shade of orange, backing away not so discreetly. "I see a, ah... a colleague... oh fuck it, we all need a pint or ten, I'd wager. I'm buying."

* * *

"So..." She takes a deep breath, staring at you as though this is an everyday occurrence; as though you're friends who meet in this pub every night like a cheesy 90s sitcom — "Is Honor doing well?"

"Taking the world by storm," you grin, genuine affection for your sister hard to disguise; "Her and Josh, that is. That man'll be whipped by her 'till the day he dies."

Steven snipes in, "Lucky bastard, he is; your sister's gorgeous."

They both ignore him.

"Your mother?" You ask, knowing it's the obvious follow-up.

"—has got two Gilmore-blooded twin two-year-olds running around her house, covering her and Luke up to their necks in peanut butter and jam," Rory responds, and for the first time, you see a sincere, affectionate beam upon her lips—the same one she used to direct at you.

"Is that why you left?" You ask, taking a small swig of scotch, and you hasten to clarify; "Ireland, I mean?"

And you watch the affectionate smile slip off so fast you start to doubt it was there to begin with.

"Yes," she answers curtly, cutting off all further questioning.

That tone would've worked on sober Logan. It _had_ , in the past—many times.

You push further; "Wide open future of foreign correspondence not the dream, then, mhm?"

Her gaze is so cold it nearly roots you into the ground, turned to stone.

She grabs Steven's arm, without waiting for his acquiesce, and declares, "This is a great song—be a shame to waste it sitting here. Steven?" She holds out to her arm to the British bastard he's going to castrate in the morning.

And as the beginning chords to 'I've Got You Under My Skin' begin to play, — a bastardized version, naturally — you watch her, scrutinizing. It's a petty, even sadistic move on her part, one you hadn't been expecting from her, but it's _telling_ all the same. In a way that makes you hot under the collar, gripping at your tie for numerous reasons. She may not be hurling herself at you for a fight, but she's still pissed.

After all this time, you can see her anger for what it is.

 _'I've got you under my skin,_

 _I've got you so deep in the heart of me;_

 _so deep in my heart that you're really a part of me.'_

Steven isn't laughing, or having a good time anymore. He's twelve shades of uncomfortable. Rory isn't even looking at her partner, she's looking at _you_ , with those burning blue eyes.

You don't notice anything beyond his hand on her waist.

 _'I'd sacrifice anything, come what might;_

 _for the sake of having you near.'_

She _is_ near; the nearest she's been in years. Near enough to grab, to take, to kiss, to dance. To whisper in her ear - to whisper promises dirty and sweet, tasteful and tacky, silly and serious.

 _'...in spite of a warning voice, that comes in the night;_

 _and repeats, repeats in my ear...'_

A hiss bellows from your throat at the sight of her—so carefree, amused, uncaring; my god, so cruel...

You don't see the longing, the guilt, the displeasure at Steven's hands or the distaste in her smile.

You don't see anything but the distance between you.

 _'Don't you know, you fool, you can never win;_

 _use your mentality, wake up to reality.'_

You remember it well:

Flopped on the sofa, eyes that were half-lidded from sleep and pleasure, the song echoing peacefully all around you, a twist of her hair in your fingers, you whispered, "Sounds like something my father would say to me," and you laugh, so full of joy, of carelessness—"Warning voice," you bite out; "how goddamn _apt_."

Her giggle is wonderful; mirthful, and oh so sarcastic, but with such an underlying sweet tenor. So _her_.

"Did you just compare your father to _our_ Sinatra song?" She asked, bewildered.

You shrug, but the playfulness of your smile is not lost on either of you.

Her voice is so soft, but so full of conviction, only slightly muffled with her head buired in your chest—"This _is_ reality, Logan; this moment, right here. Don't let him, don't let anyone, _ever_ , convince you differently."

"Ace—"

"No, I love you—listen to me, dammit. I love you, for as long as the world has, don't you ever doubt that."

Your lips quirk into a laugh. "I won't."

"Don't you ever _deny_ that," she says, more serious this time.

"I won't."

"Don't you ever _forget_ it."

"I won't," you say again, stronger this time, because her fingers tracing the buttons on your shirt are suddenly trembling a bit now.

This last one, a hint of vulnerability in her tone—"Don't ever let _me_ forget it, either. You better keep me honest, Huntzberger. God knows someone has to."

Capturing her lips with yours, caressing every inch she allows, you mutter, a promise you couldn't break if you tried, "I won't."

...

Suddenly, she's in front of you again. Steven is seated next to you, a shade paler than you've ever seen him.

Her smile is wry, but it's hollow too. "Don't forget to find me and say goodbye before you leave, Huntzberger."

Your voice is hoarse, nearly broken when you vocalize it— _"I won't."_

You hope the words will spark something in her. Something in her that'll move her closer, press your lips together and never dare to pull back.

But she nods and walks away.

* * *

You find her leaning against the piano after the set is over, and you smile.

"Hoping to score a spot in the band, Ace?"

"Oh, you know me," she jokes, "A groupie is all I really ever wanted to be. The journalism stuff was a nice cover."

A hand wraps around her waist — not an innocent hand, not like Steven's, but a different kind of hand. A hand with subtext. "You ready to go, darling?"

"Just saying goodbye to an old friend," she answers, smiling at the shaggy-haired crooner. "Tom, this is Logan. Logan, Tom."

The introductions are stale, but you both maintain some composure.

"I'll be out in a minute, alright?"

Tom — you scoff, yeah; the bastard _definitely_ looks like a Tom — reluctantly disappears, and Rory turns back to you.

"It was good to see you, Ace," you smile, broad and gregarious, as though it were a pleasant experience, as if there was no animosity in the air, no longing underneath, no scotch on your breath, no dead fathers or pricks named Tom.

"You too, Logan," she says, and there's more sincerity there than you expected.

You bring her into your arms, and she smells the same, feels the same—and you tilt down just slightly to whisper in her ear, your breath hot with alcohol, fear and desire: "But each time I do, just the thought of you makes me stop before I begin."

Her broad grin is indescribable, completely uninhibited; you finally found the one trick that erased all the pretence.

"'Cause I've got you..." she begins to respond, a tiny lilt to her voice that makes it somewhat melodic.

"Under your skin?" You don't intone it like a lyric; right now, you ask it like a question.

She stops for a moment, unsure of how to respond. "More often than I'd like to admit," she says, and a distinct shiver passes through both of you. Instead of kissing her, instead of capitalizing on this moment, instead of anything that would make _any fucking sense,_ you do the stupidest thing of the entire night. You let her back away. You let her hurry out the door, to meet up with Tom, to get in a cab and drive away.

Not even twenty minutes later, guided by only the dim New York streetlights, a drunken sense of orientation and spotty directions from a catty co-worker of hers you scoped out at the bar, all you can do is keep walking. You just need to see her. God, you need to see her. Just one more time.

If she was going to dance to your song with another man, you'll be damned if you don't get a repeat performance.

* * *

She thought it was over, but she should've known him better than that. Dressed in blue Yale sweatpants and a ratty Bangles t-shirt, hair mussed every which way and wrapped in a fuzzy, wool blanket, she scuttered over to her door, carrying an almost empty can of Chinese food, one chopstick and the television remote.

He was standing on the other side, his shoulders slack, his posture defeated, but his smile sly as always.

Before she could voice a question, he smirked, pulled her out in the hallway, and expertly — drunkenly, rather — dipped her back in what could have been a dance move had there been music. His grip was tight, holding on for dear life, but his smile was slick and easy, like the Logan of old. He jolted her back up, back into his arms, close enough that their lips were touching. He moved back slightly, a goofy grin on his face as he declared, "Somebody's gotta keep you honest, Ace."

She might've scoffed, but it didn't stop him from noticing the hitch in her breath.

Finally, after a long pause, she resigned; "You coming inside?" Her eyes were twinkling, teasing. "Never known you to linger. Do you need a window to climb through?"

Standing there, rooted to the spot, breathless at the sight of her mirthful blue eyes and suggestive smile, you stagger somewhat, but she rolls her eyes, laughs and pulls you inside.

You take one look around, one look back at her, and for the first time all day, the breath you take doesn't feel like knives.

* * *

 **Notes:** I'm excited about this, guys! It didn't turn out at all like I'd planned - even the feature song changed during re-write - but I'm feeling pretty good about it. It's quite different from my usual style, but so was THR, so I'm keeping with the trend.

Please let me know what you thought, feedback of any sort is always so welcome, and appreciated.

Glad to be back writing some R&L. I missed them. And you. :D


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